


a sword once sheathed

by mc_dude



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, PWP, a great feat of ñoldo engineering, no sadness here only fingon getting railed within an inch of his life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mc_dude/pseuds/mc_dude
Summary: In which a shaft, though not feathered, is sped, and some pity is given with great enthusiasm to a Ñoldo in his great need.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 24
Kudos: 91





	a sword once sheathed

Their procession is met with horn from atop the gates, its sound clear and its tone bright. Not many could be spared from the reconstruction efforts, but they had managed seven of Himring’s people, as well as its Lord. They will not be underrepresented at the High King’s council, no matter how it might please the other attendees.

His horse’s hooves clatter over the river stones, and splash the bottom of his boots with Sirion’s waters. He orders a halt when they are before the gates, eyeing the great sculptures of Ice on either side with distaste. Always he had thought them ostentatious, and the Song required to sustain them a waste, but he could hardly say as much. The heavy wood groans, and lifts.

It is strange– he hadn’t quite realised how eager he was until he is now forced to sit still, and wait.

How long has it been since last he laid eyes on him? Four winters? Five? _Too long_ , his heart tells him, and he can’t help but agree. They’ve had letters, of course, and the ravens send word as often as they can despite Fingon’s attempts to fatten them to the point of ineptitude, but words can only go so far. Though he will have to wait until after the council to speak with him, surely; they have arrived late in the day already, and the time of the crowned Prince is not his to squander, however he might wish it.

The first gate finishes rising, and the second behind it lurches upward. How he had praised Barad Eithel’s defensive construction in the past! Now it seeks to torture him.

 _You will see him soon_ , he chides himself, and tries not to fidget upon his horse. Though to have Fingon so close and to not be able to touch, to be forced to maintain the proper forms into the long hours of the night; he can think of no greater test of will, and he has many creative examples to choose from.

The third and final gate rises, and he motions his party forward, fisting his hand in Ilmarunda’s mane and slipping off to his left with a barely suppressed groan. His horse butts his head against him, and Maedhros pats his nose reassuringly as the courtyard appears before the rising gate. Perhaps he will have time to remove the dirt of the road before the council, if he is–

“Hail, Lord of Himring!”

His heart leaps into his throat, and he’s grateful then that he still has a grip on his horse or else he might have fallen to his knees when he catches sight of him– there, on the steps.

Oh, but it _has_ been too long. Too long since he’s laid eyes upon his sweet dimpled smile, and his warm eyes bright with affection. Fingon wears a light silver robe, with his arms barred and the vee of the fabric pooling around his navel, and as Arien’s light shines upon his skin Maedhros is struck speechless with the longing that arises in him. He starts forward as one adrift in Irmo’s domain, but one of his men coughs, and the spell is broken. Right– they are in public.

“Hail, my Lord,” he finally responds, and sinks to a knee. His men follow, and he looks up as Fingon all but runs down the steps. Once he is before him, he rises.

“We have awaited your arrival since the noon bell,” says Fingon somewhat breathlessly, and manages to make it sound as a caress. Maedhros closes his eyes a moment to gather his wits.

“We were set back half a day’s time north of Minas Tirith,” he says, eyes trailing appreciatively down the front of Fingon’s robe. “There was, ah.. mud.”

“Mud?” says Fingon, and surely he must know what that look does to him, and is doing it on purpose. There’s a healthy flush on his face, and he looks so lovely at that moment it takes all of his remaining will not to kiss him senseless here in the courtyard. Fingon shifts his stance, and his robes part further. Maedhros stares at the revealed skin, mouth as dry as old parchment.

“Yes,” he finally responds once he remembers something was asked of him. “I apologise for the delay,” he says, and means it most sincerely. He imagines Fingon waiting for him on the steps, tying with the strings of his robe as he looks Westward, fingers drifting down his chest, down further to the buckle of his belt–

“ _Ai_ , that is not food, Ilma,” Fingon chastises, and Maedhros regains his senses, grateful for the heavy gambeson between them. He gently tugs Fingon’s braid from his horse’s mouth with an affectionate _tsk_.

“Perhaps if you stopped feeding him when you think I do not notice he would not pester you at every opportunity.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“I see you have not become a better liar since last we parted.”

“I could have become a great many things since last I saw you,” says Fingon with a pout.

“Aye,” says Maedhros, and then, quieter and with great regret, “I apologise for that as well.”

“I will grant you my forgiveness later, should you earn it,” Fingon responds in kind, and his eyes are so dark then Maedhros must twist his fingers into Ilmarunda’s mane to stop from reaching out. He was right, to not be able to touch– it is indeed more painful than any whip.

Behind them, a cough. The sound of a flask opening.

“Right,” says Fingon, shaking his head. He’s left his braids unbound, and they clatter about him as he turns about. “Right,” he says once more, and starts up the stairs, not bothering to check if he follows; of course he does. “I’m sure you must be tired from the road. My father has delayed the council until after tonight's feast.” He looks over his shoulder at him. “Everyone is still quite busy at the moment, stewards and all. I would be happy to show you to your room, should you wish it.”

It is beneath the dignity of the crowned Prince to do so. “Yes, thank you,” he replies, strained, and if his gait is awkward as he follows Fingon up the steps, no one speaks of it. His men follow behind.

“Is that a new blade, my Lord?” questions someone behind him– Varilëenil, he thinks.  
  
“Ah, you noticed!” says Fingon, obviously pleased, and pulls it from his scabbard with a twisting flourish. Its naked steel flashes as fire the golden light of the afternoon, and Maedhros is momentarily distracted from the sway of Fingon’s hips by the sudden display of craftsmanship.

“May I?” asks Maedhros, and holds out his hand to inspect it. Fingon graciously sets it in his grasp hilt-first, with a brush of his fingers that cannot be anything but deliberate. Maedhros swallows, and holds the sword aloft. “These runes, I have not seen them on any blade– are they of the Khazâd?”

“They are,” says Fingon, walking up the steps backwards. “‘Tis a product of new trade between us: one of our songs of fire and theirs of iron. I know not what the runes say, and the smith would not tell me no matter how much I pleaded, but I can sense their power in each fold of the steel. You can feel the lightness of the blade there in your hands, as well, but a harder metal I’ve not seen, and with no brittleness to speak of!”

“A marvel,” Maedhros agrees, and flips the sword over the back of his hand to give it back to Fingon. “Though a bit short for my tastes.”

Fingon huffs, sheathing the blade as they near the top of the steps. “I know well you prefer a longer reach, though how you manage with so cumbersome a blade I do not know.”

“It’s good sense to keep distance between you and the enemy, though I know my words are wasted on one who frequently punctures orcs with arrows as one would a dagger.”

“I’ve found it does not matter how long one’s weapon might be, but rather the skill and accuracy in which they wield it,” Fingon says innocently, catching his eye. “Don’t you agree?”

Maedhros misses the final step, but recovers before he thinks his men notice. Fingon waves to the guard of the inner gate. Slowly it ascends, as a torture rack unfolding.

"It is unseasonably warm today, do you not think?" says Fingon, and casually twists his braids atop his head, pinning them with a gold-plated rod. His robe parts near his neck, revealing a long strip of bare skin down the top of his spine. He watches a bead of sweat trickle from the edge of Fingon’s hair down along the curve of his spine, pausing a moment as if to taunt him, and then dipping down into the folds of Fingon’s robe. He wants to follow its path with his tongue.

“It must be terribly uncomfortable beneath all of that dark armor,” Fingon says, the bastard, voice laced with empathy. “You must not begrudge yourself time to relax before the feast. I know the road past Nan Dungortheb is both long, and perilous.”

He remembers well the last time they had ridden together past the shadow of Ered Gorgoroth, after being separated from their men en route to Himring; the spawn of Ungoliant they had slain there, the grace in which Fingon had beheaded two spiders at once, and, after deciding so great a feat must be properly celebrated, their fierce coupling afterwards under the stars on the fields of Dor Dínen.

He looks at Fingon now and remembers the deference that he offered to him for his prowess in battle, how he had stripped him slowly of his armor until he was bare upon the grass; how he had ridden him slowly there under the dew of Telperion, gold-woven braids glistening in its light, until their cries had filled the silence of the lands. He had been glad that no one dwelt thither that night.

Fingon remembers it as well he sees; his jaw tense, and his eyes desperate as they meet each other’s gaze there before the gates. He aches to reach towards him, to pull him into his arms and feel his skin against his own once more. Fingon’s tongue slips from his mouth to wet his lips, and Maedhros stares, entranced.

“Shall we heed our Prince’s advice and rest before the feast, my Lord?” a voice asks loudly– Varilëenil again– interrupting his warm thoughts. The gate has been open for some time, he realises.

“Of course,” says Maedhros, still looking at Fingon’s mouth. “We will reconvene at the counsel this evening.”

His people disperse around them, though Fingon has not moved, nor the guards of the gate. A thick tension has settled between them, and Maedhros finds himself wetting his lips as well. A guard clears her throat behind him.

“This way,” Fingon says at length, and sets off down the hall to their right. Blindly, Maedhros follows.

They pass through the innards of Barad Eithel in silence, weaving between servants and other guests until they near the end of the northernmost hall. At its end, a guardpost with a pair of lookouts, and before them, a door.

“Here we are,” says Fingon tersely, fishing for the key within a pocket of his robe. The guards pay them no heed save for a bow of their heads in deference to their prince, and, though he might have imagined it, a long sigh. Finally, the door opens, and Fingon bids him enter, and he is not one to deny his prince, so he does. Fingon slips through after him and shuts the door, locking it behind him with a loud _click_.

Before he can blink, Fingon has him up against the door.

Vaguely, Maedhros thinks of the guards down the hall as Fingon thrusts his tongue into his mouth and grinds upon him desperately, but he finds he cannot bring himself to care, instead plucking the rod from Fingon’s hair to twist his fingers about his braids, and moaning with the sheer delight of it. He is in his armor still, and Fingon near sobs against his lips in frustration as he tries to get him out of it.

“Easy,” he says softly, and kisses Fingon again, slipping from his mouth down to the side of his neck, to lick at a bead of sweat still pooled there.

“Do not tell me to be _easy_ ,” Fingon hisses, tossing his hauberk to the floor in a clattering of mail. His leather arm brace follows. He fumbles at the clasps of Maedhros’ gambeson, cursing. “It has been five fucking years, and I– oh, _oh_ –”

He palms Fingon beneath his tight trousers after slipping his belt and scabbard off of him, and his robes open as the final parting of the clouds after a terrible storm. He runs his hand up his stomach in reverence, flicking a thumb over his nipple to hear Fingon’s sweet gasp.

“Gods, but you grow more beautiful every time I lay eyes on you,” he murmurs, and delights that even hundreds of years later, the praise still makes Fingon flush from head to navel. Fingon finishes the last of the clasps upon his gambeson, and presses against him once more.

“Varda’s tits,” he groans, tearing at the tunic he finds beneath it. “Do you always have to wear so many clothes?”

“Perhaps I delight in having you strip me of them,” he says, and undoes the ties of Fingon’s loose trousers. They pool at his feet, and Maedhros’ mouth goes dry at the sight of him, hard, and wet, and straining.

“I will wait no longer,” Fingon declares suddenly, and kicks his boot through one of his trouser legs. “I would have you.” Maedhros flushes hot at that and kisses Fingon hard, flipping them so that Fingon is against the wall as he looks for his pack where he might find oil.

“There’s no need,” Fingon says, grabbing his hand and guiding it to his cock, and then further back still. “See here, I knew you would arrive today ere the counsel,” he breathes, and Maedhros feels him then, loose and dripping. He slips two fingers inside of him, groaning as Fingon dips his hips to take him further. He imagines Fingon upon his great bed this morn, easing himself open, head thrown back against his silken pillows as he thought of him–

“Finno,” Maedhros says incredulously, overcome, and withdraws his fingers with a curse to fumble at his laces. The tight leather is a crueler prison than he’s ever known, and he fears that if he doesn’t remove them at once he might perish.

“Yes, come on,” says Fingon, and bats his hand aside to finish untying the laces. “Please, please,” he breathes as Maedhros frees himself with a relieved groan. He considers for a moment logistics, and decides the bed is too far a distance to travel with Fingon before him as he is, and instead slips his fingers and stump beneath Fingon’s thighs and hefts him up the door. Fingon wraps his legs about his waist, impatiently kicking at his lower back as he draws him closer with his ankles. He sinks down onto him then, and the tight heat of him then is as close to bliss as he’s ever known.

“ _Gods_ ,” groans Fingon, and Maedhros bites his shoulder, shaking with the effort of not spilling into him immediately. “I love you,” Fingon says, babbling as he clenches hot about him. “Oh, I _have_ missed you, you and your thick cock–”

Maedhros kisses him to shut him up, and fucks into him then, hard. The door rattles behind them as he thrusts, but he cares not for subtlety, only for Fingon, and the twist of his fingers in his tunic, and the way he gasps so prettily against his lips. Already his shoulder burns, but Fingon throws his head back and moans as he angles his hips just so, so he does not think he will mind the soreness of it later.

Fingon reaches down between them with clear intent, and at that Maedhros moves his leg up and over his shoulder, and uses the newfound freedom of his hand to bat Fingon’s away, pinning it beneath his own as he shifts for a better angle. He hears Fingon curse him wetly against his neck, and feels his hand digging into the back of his tunic as he holds on. Between them, Fingon leaks against his chest, and Maedhros licks his lips at the sight. He drops his hips, and thrusts upward.

“ _Oh_ ,” Fingon gasps, long eyelashes fluttering as he pants and grabs at the collar of his tunic. “Ah, Russo– right there,” he says, and Maedhros knows he is close by the way his thighs quake under his arms. At that, he slows down his pace, thrusting only shallowly into him, and kisses Fingon's curses from his lips. If he could, he would spend hours teasing him, would take him apart slowly, and thoroughly, until he was utterly at his mercy, and only then would he give him what he seeks. But it _has_ been too long, far too long, and even if he focused all of his great will upon it, he knows he would not last.

“Do not–” Fingon warns, and then cries out when Maedhros thrusts into him to the hilt. “ _Fuck_ , do not stop–” He grabs at his own dark braids, arching his back as he trembles. “Right there, _yes–_ ”

He pulls away enough to watch when Fingon tenses all over, to catch sight of the sweet furrow of his brow and the parting of his lips as he shudders, once, and then spills between them untouched, with a loud moan, thick and hot about his chest. So beautiful does he look, and so tightly does he clench about him then, that Maedhros can do nothing but curse, and bury himself as deep as he can, and follow.

He shoves his face deep into Fingon’s neck after, and breathes in the scent of him; argan oil from his hair, and clove-spiced soap on his skin. Familiar scents, and a comfort to him. Fingon’s fingers play with the hairs on the back of his neck as the shaking of his limbs subsides, and Maedhros feels his eyes grow wet from the love he feels in that moment. He presses a sloppy kiss to Fingon’s collar, and Fingon hums, and tugs him closer, and all is quiet.

At length, Fingon moves to lower his leg, but Maedhros instead lifts him from the door whilst still inside him, and carries him to the bed. Fingon laughs in delight, and drapes his arms around his shoulders, head tucked under his chin. He topples them back against the bed with a soft _whumph_ , and Fingon lands lightly upon his chest.

Oh, but he is a vision above him– face alight with warmth, his braids falling around them as a curtain, so that he might pretend that only they might exist, here, in this moment. A warm breeze flows in through the window on the far side of the room, and the clasps of Fingon's braids clatter about as rain upon stone.

“I have missed you also,” he rasps, reaching to smooth the hair of Fingon’s eyebrow, and then cup his cheek in fondness. Fingon leans into his touch, and then turns to kiss his palm.

“I could not tell,” he says wryly, and clenches about him once more, as if to illustrate his point. Maedhros shudders, and tugs him closer. Fingon makes a displeased noise at the scratchy wool of his tunic, and together they work to disrobe him more fully, through Fingon’s flexibility and with much laughter. Fingon finally kicks off his boots and together they manage to shuffle onto the bed, at which point Fingon flops against Maedhros’ chest as one utterly at peace. Maedhros runs his fingers through his braids, overcome by the same contentment. It astonishes him how he's managed to go five years without this, how adept he's become at not allowing himself to think of these moments for fear of being overcome with yearning.

“The counsel will be held soon,” Fingon murmurs against his chest. He does not sound overly concerned as he traces a scar upon his skin, down the side of his ribs to the top of his hip, and dipping inward. Maedhros’ cock twitches. Fingon moans softly, and clenches about him. He looks up at Maedhros, eyes bright and hopeful. Maedhros hums, considering.

“You will need to be able to sit,” he reasons, but he can deny Fingon nothing, and nor does he want to. Already he strokes Fingon’s hip, and rocks up into him in shallow thrusts. Fingon gasps, oversensitive, but pushes back to meet him, his breath hot against Maedhros’ lips. He pulls back and looks at him, and his eyes are very dark, their dim golden glow as embers in the fading afternoon light.

“For you, I will bear it,” Fingon says hoarsely, and rolls his hips.  
  
They are quite late to the counsel meeting.  
  
  
  


–––––

  
  


“I will admit," Fingon says, much later and half-hanging off of the bed. "I do feel as though I’ve been quite thoroughly speared, and with great accuracy! Perhaps there is some benefit to having a longer weapon, such as it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Afterwards, no elf dare utter a word as to the nature of the Prince's sudden limp, or the first son of Fëanor's slinged arm for the length of the counsel, least of all the High King, whom avoided his son's gaze with a practice long borne.


End file.
